


Wings

by StuntMuppet



Category: Transformers Animated (2007)
Genre: Gen, Post-Canon, gen - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-03
Updated: 2010-12-03
Packaged: 2017-10-13 12:27:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/137341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StuntMuppet/pseuds/StuntMuppet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ratchet teaches Optimus about history, and patterns. Post-season 3</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wings

“There’s a reason we don’t fly,” Ratchet grumbles, cleaning exhaust and soot from the rims of the jetpack’s afterburners.

 Optimus shakes his head. “You were Omega Supreme’s friend for hundreds of stellar cycles, Ratchet. You ought to know better than anyone that Autobots can fly if they have the hardware for it.”

 “I know we _can_ fly, kid. How dumb do ya think I am?” Optimus senses a rant coming, and goes back to fine-tuning the wings, but he listens all the same. “But we _shouldn’t_. It’s not what we’re for.”

 “It’s been a long time, though. Can’t our functions change?”

 “It’s not about function, it’s about principles. We might have had a hard road to run, fighting the Decepticons, but we knew who we _were_ , damn it. And now look at you! They’re just strapping jet engines on anybody they think they can use, no thought to what separates us from them…”

 Optimus half-smiles and continues tightening the bolts on his wings. In truth he’d been reluctant to remove them, even for repair; he taken a few test flights over Autobot City and had marveled at the freedom those wings gave him. He could see the whole city as it clicked and whirled like an old engine, slightly off-kilter but running smooth all the same. It lit up in both grids and in patternless spreads, the lights of buildings and the headlights of other Autobots. And he’d felt the warm hum of pride, watching all of it run, but there was something he loved about the thought of being just a little removed, a little above, something that other bots could look up and think to.

 And then one of the engines had started making a suspect wheezing noise and he’d conceded to the need for maintenance.

 Besides, Ratchet always gives him a particularly sour look when he wears them. He’d hoped that seeing them in combat might make him less hostile towards them, but when Optimus has the jetpack on Ratchet still looks at the wings, not at him.

 “You know it’s not that simple, Ratchet,” he says, looking back up at him. “We might not have won our last fight on Earth without these. You might not have won the Great War without the Omega Sentinels.”

 “And look how they ended up.” He finishes on the afterburners and turns to walk away, back to the toolkit on the wall. Optimus looks at him but does not speak.

 It’ll be different, he wants to say. He knows what he’s getting into, wearing the wings; he knows the sacrifices he might have to make. And the Decepticons are scattered, without the coordination they had in the wars before. Besides, he’ll have some say in what the council does this time, won’t he? He can make sure they don’t build the Sentinels again, knowing what he does now. And he almost believes it, but he knows Ratchet won’t, not with the heavy charge of another war in the air.

 All he can manage is “We need to use what advantages we have.”

 Ratchet shakes his head, sighs, and doesn’t face him. “Do you know why they started, kid? All those wars?”

 “The Cons tried to seize control of the planet, didn’t they?”

 “That’s the way the history vids tell it. Truth is, back before the wars the planet was full of squabbling factions anyway. Autobots had to protect themselves from each other. So we gave some bots weapons, gave them the ability to fly, told them it was up to them to keep us safe. They wondered why they were doing our dirty work when they were the ones with the firepower, and you can guess how that went.”

 He turns back to Optimus. “Then the war starts, we build fliers who can’t question all the killing they do. The ‘Cons resurface, we build fliers – those two jets made out of Decepticon programming – and just turn ‘em loose and hope they work.”

 “I wasn’t built with these,” Optimus replies, but he still looks uneasily at the wings.

 “Don’t you see it doesn’t matter? The only reason they give people flight is so they can use ‘em, make weapons out of ‘em. Just…tools to kill and die.”  Ratchet looks away, and Optimus notices his hand drift, instinctually, to the scarring on his arm, where even with his EMP generator re-installed the armor hadn’t neatly healed. “I don’t want that to happen to you.”

 “It won’t,” he says. Ratchet doesn’t look convinced – and why should he be, Optimus thinks, when he’s probably heard so many reassurances already. And if it weren’t for two or three minor miracles Optimus would already be dead anyway. For the most part he’s told himself he’d survive the real war that’s coming, running platitudes through his processor in the hope of somehow making them true (like he’d done when he’d first boarded the _Orion_ , telling himself over and over again that he was made for something more), but really, what kind of promises could he make? “I…I hope it won’t, anyway.”

 Ratchet walks over to the workbench again, stopping to stand beside him, and Optimus leans onto the bench. “I hope,” he repeats, and Ratchet places a hand on his shoulder, understanding.

 “Just promise me you won’t keep them,” Ratchet says, indicating the wings. “When this is over – if it’s ever over – don’t make them a part of you.”

 “Promise,” he says, quietly, running a hand along one of their edges, because as much as he loved the feel of flying he wishes he didn’t need to.


End file.
